


Clock Without Hours

by aldiara



Category: Alles was zählt
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Character death aftermath, Gen, Heavy Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:25:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldiara/pseuds/aldiara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marc used to be good at time, before That Thing happened.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Clock Without Hours

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Lilithilien for the super-speedy beta and to Alsha for her patient company on my desperate title hunt. (I ended up stealing the title of "Uhr ohne Stunden" by Thomas Godoj, which I thought fit this whole concept really well, although it sounds a lot better in German.)
> 
>  
> 
> *

You died on a Thursday but I didn't find out on the day, of course. I'd actually meant to give you a ring that weekend, the way we sometimes do: not too often, not what you'd even call regularly. Twice in August. Before that, it had been four months. I didn't usually think about it until the impulse to call you hit and it _had_ hit earlier that week, but I was too wrapped up in post-production and by the time I would have had a moment, Thursday had come and gone, and so had you, with all the moments you had left.

The story of you and me, in two words: Too Late.

Always too bloody late.

 

~~~

He called on Friday afternoon. There was noise in the background: buzzing voices, the insistent honk of a car horn. He spoke calmly, almost businesslike, without the hostility I was used to from him. He didn't ask if I was sitting down. I don't remember if I was. I don't remember what I said, either. I must have asked questions, surely. Maybe made demands.

No, I didn't; I remember now. I think what I said I said politely and on autopilot. I asked how long and when, as if there was a point to measuring your death in days, weeks, months. As if I could make sense of it if only I could fit it round my neatly organised schedule of the past few months: _When I had that sponsor meeting, you were dying; while I hired a new choreographer, you came to terms with not existing._

Eventually, there came a pause. I remember staring at the grey square of my kitchen window. It had been raining. Would I be home, he asked eventually. There was something; something from you. He'd rather not mail it. He was on the road, had thought about taking a detour north if I didn't mind. Of course, I said, politely, my lips feeling numb as they moved. Of course. He had to prompt me for my address.

I lost an hour, after. Don't remember a thing. I came to sitting on my kitchen floor making choking noises but I couldn't cry properly; someone had jammed a fist down my throat and blocked it. It was only when something cold and wet began to soak into my trousers that I noticed I was surrounded by green shards, in a spreading puddle of the Pinot Noir I'd bought that afternoon. I waited too long to clean it up; the stain's still visible, even now.

 

~~~

He was taller than I had remembered, and looked a lot less like a boy. There was something too stark about his face, the bones pushing too close to the skin, as if some sculptor had chiselled just a little bit too much off him. When I invited him in, he glanced briefly past me – I'm sure he could spot the shattered bottle from the entrance – then shook his head. Someplace to be, he said. Just passing through. He handed me a brown envelope with no name on it. I took it and stared. I should have said something, I know. Condolences, sympathy. I had no words, or at least no offerings of kindness. Somewhere not too deep down, demands and accusations churned, half-formed statements of _"Did you even..."_ and _"Surely some specialist could have…"_ I swallowed them; those are the things that help no one and can't be taken back once uttered. I did not want to chip away even more at his defences.

We lingered there a few more long awkward moments, neither knowing what to say. Words are so small sometimes, and we had never shared anything but loving you. With you gone, we did not even have resentment left.

"Deniz, are you..." I began, then stopped because there wasn't anything to say.

"I gotta go," he said abruptly, and I just nodded, clutching the envelope as he hurried down the stairs.

At the landing, he paused briefly and surprised me, looking up at me with sharp dark eyes. I watched him weigh words, watched his jaws clench briefly, watched him push himself over into speaking. "He was happy," he said, and for the first time since my phone had rung I could hear the tumble of emotion just beneath his skin, seeping into his voice. "When it happened… he was happy. If that helps."

I nodded, though it didn't help, not then. "Wait," I called after him when he moved on. "Where are you going?"

A smile twitched at the corners of his lips. "Holland," he said, and took the stairs two at a time. By the time I realised that he'd gone pretty much the opposite way to come here first, he was long gone.

 

~~~

I never was the type to sit and stare at important letters before I open them. The content's already there; it won't change no matter how long you turn it over in your hands. I slipped a finger under the edge of the envelope to rip it open and pulled out a DVD case. The artwork on the disc startled a laugh out of me: a knight in shining armour, brandishing a mop. I slipped the disc into the player and reached for the remote with fingers slightly shaking.

The sight of you gave me another shock. You were on some beach, windblown and slightly flushed, wearing a loose grey sweater; you looked impossibly alive, and close enough to touch.

"Hey you," you said, then cleared your throat. "I made a mistake last time. I didn't say goodbye properly, and I regretted that afterwards. So I'm determined to not repeat that, because hey, talk about last chances, right? I want to do this right." You looked down, breathed deeply, looked back up. Smiled, somewhat shakily. "Turns out this whole doing it right thing really, really bites. Because I don't want to do it right, or any way at all, really. But such is life, I guess. Or, you know, that other thing." You grinned, stuck out your tongue a little bit. I wanted to swat you over the head, or hold you close.

You talked, and for a while I forgot to follow the words because my screen got a little blurry. "I miss you, sometimes," you said, almost too quietly beneath the wind. "I know there was no right choice to make, and someone had to lose. But I want you to know that I miss you. And… thanks. For coming back last year." You snorted then, half laugh, half something pained. "Gave me a world of trouble, and you too… and Deniz. It was such a mess. But Marc, I want you to know, despite everything… I'm glad you did. I'm glad we tried. Because one should always try."

You bit your lip, frowned. It looked like you might say something else but in the end you just shrugged a little, gave me a little wave and said, "Take care. And try to be happy. Ciao."

You didn't ask for favours, claimed no final wish. You just closed your laptop and left me frozen on my leather sofa, far from the pain and glory of your final days because they were not for me.

 

~~~

I spent the weekend travelling time. I shouldered back into your life a thousand times and every time I saved you. I came to visit, found you in a weak moment, got you to tell me and not him. I dropped by long before the endgame; caught you with a headache; made you go see a doctor. I found a cure, a specialist, some experimental treatment barely even heard of. It worked. It always worked. Sometimes I went back all the way to last year. I didn't back off gracefully this time; I used whatever means of persuasion I had and swept you with me, into a new life together. Surely I would have noticed earlier than he did. Surely I would have insisted that you get checked out when chances were still better. Surely I could have thought of the one argument he didn't use, the thing that would have made you fight. I'm good with words. He's not. I would have talked at you until you saw sense. I would have dragged you round the world if need be, chasing salvation. I would have done everything you didn't want me to.

~~~

My life is so meticulously planned. It has to be; I depend on that. For a week, I threw myself into work as usual and kept my evenings free for grieving, at sensible times when it wouldn't inconvenience anyone. How do you mourn someone who wasn't yours to begin with? But you were. The body isn't logical, and the heart least of all. If you had paled over the past year, you were suddenly back with a vengeance. I'd hear your voice in crowded rooms, see you spin round a corner in the street. The nights were worst. I dreamed of you close to my skin, naked and laughing, your eyes crinkling at the corners the way they do. I woke up every morning and every day you were still dead. Such a stupid way to think, that – as if it was subject to change – but I couldn't help it. For a few days there in the middle of the week, I barely slept at all, for fear of dreaming.

On Thursday, I remembered other people. I made an effort. Cleaned up, drank three cups of coffee. Then I called your brother.

 

~~~

I spent the second weekend compulsively going through keepsakes. There were quite a few; like you, I've always had trouble throwing things out. There were your letters, stacked by date. A wrinkled sheet of hand-scrawled music you had written that night when we first plotted our ice musical, before you realised you'd screwed up the scale, and crumpled it up, laughing. That ridiculous cap you gave me for my birthday, smelling musty now. A couple of train tickets from a trip we took to Geneva. That dratted pair of passport pictures. From more recently, a wealth of notes and sketches from our aborted production; a disc containing footage of you waving a mop about on the ice. I sat in the middle of my living room, surrounded by a pile of scraps of you, and tried to grasp the ungraspable. A year ago, I'd come to terms with having had to let you go, but I didn't know how to process the knowledge that you weren't just out of my life but out of everyone's; out of your own. A bottle and a half of wine later, I was still stone cold sober and your video was back on screen. I soaked up every stolen second of your beach day, every frown and smile and tug of the wind on your hair. I watched until I knew your words by heart. I laughed at you and cursed you and at some point I suppose I fell apart.

~~~

It was a Friday when I went to see your grave. It was Florian's idea. I was surprised when he called, though I suppose I shouldn't have been: Out of all the people who held an interest in your life, he'd been one of the few who'd been decent to me even when things were at their messiest.

He met me at the edge of the small copse, hands shoved in his pockets, looking embarrassed. I couldn't quite stop myself from hunting for you in his features for a moment, tracing your cheekbones in his face, a certain way you used to tilt your head. Self-torture is an art form in many cultures.

He looked older, too, although he was squirming like a little boy as he shook my hand. "Marc, hey. I'm so sorry, but there's… I tried to call you but I only got your voicemail."

"I'm out of charge," I said, frowning. "Why? What's wrong?"

He looked over his shoulder, towards a group of trees huddled close together, like family. "It's Deniz," he said quietly. "He's here. I tried to call you," he repeated awkwardly, "to reschedule, or something, but it's – look, I told you he didn't come to the funeral, this is the first time he's been out here. He was talking to him, earlier. So I guess, I dunno, you might wanna come some other time…"

He trailed off as I looked past him. "Uh," he said when I started walking, but he didn't hold me back. I'm not sure why I didn't turn away; it was your lover's right to be here, not mine. I kept walking anyway.

 

Deniz was crouched on his haunches over the small circle, arms wrapped around his knees. Your grave. Two words that still don't make sense, and didn't when I saw it, an unassuming circle of earth surrounded by a modest wreath of green. Graves are for dead people. Stillness is for dead people. You were never still. It wasn't just the talking, or the way you were forever fidgeting, picking up things and twirling them between your fingers. Even when you were quiet, you were never _still_. You could be sitting motionless and one could still sense the energy thrumming inside you, your mind always busy, always working. You're the most restless sleeper that I've ever known. Holding you close never worked for long.

The copse was quiet, green and lovely. The tree that held your name was beautiful, leaves rustling gently in the breeze. It smelled of cut grass, and the sun was warm on my back. I realised, with surprise and gratitude and just the merest hint of regret, that you weren't there; that whatever force had collapsed Deniz on your grave came from within him, not from you. You were the ice and club nights and your terrible taste in clothes and your never-ceasing mouth. You were loud and obnoxious and beautiful, moody and fractured and the bravest man I knew. You were no circle in the ground.

Deniz had been talking, Florian had said, but he was quiet now, just rocking slightly back and forth, wide shoulders slumping. He looked impossibly alone, well beyond solace. Compassion took me by surprise, a surge of warmth for the man who'd made your last days what you wanted them to be; who must have either trimmed his own fears ruthlessly for your sake or embraced them with a courage fully matching yours.

I crouched down next to him, reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. I felt him flinch, then stiffen as he turned to look at me, but I had spotted the picture that he'd put down on the ground, and held my breath. You on the ice, focused and confident, one palm flung out as if to say, _don't come any closer_. Impossible, chéri. You had a way of drawing people in. Despite myself, my eyes felt suddenly hot.

Beside me, Deniz made a snuffling noise and stood. I rose with him, some impulse keeping my hand on his shoulder. He was unshaven and his face was wet and torn; a far cry from the quiet composure he exuded the day he came to bring me your message. He looked so broken that absurd or not, I was seriously contemplating whether I'd risk a punch by offering an embrace. I didn't, in the end, but just then he took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. The motion made my hand slip off, but he met my eyes briefly and as he turned to leave, he jerked his head a tiny bit, by way of invitation.

He walked away. I took one last look at your picture – the fierce expression, the outflung hand – and followed.

And that, I suppose, is how everything began.


End file.
